


river runs its banks

by laminated_newspaper



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laminated_newspaper/pseuds/laminated_newspaper
Summary: ‘'In the spring when the rivers run their banks and flood the fields I will carry you to safety. When the waters recede we will pick through what is left and plant our kisses in the earth. When our kisses grow to love, forever blooming, I pray to harvest what benefits the living may receive from each other by loving what is cultivated. My love for you grows back like a wild weed and cannot be truly purged. The earth itself may tear us asunder but like the desert flowers I will return again and again for you.’'“That’s lovely.” The prophet Brutha mumbled from his pillow. “Who’s it from?”
Relationships: Brutha & Om (Discworld), Brutha/Om (Discworld)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	river runs its banks

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there’s nothing to do but read old Aramaic love poetry and also Discworld books. Sometimes they remind me of each other. Social distancing is turning me into a stew of gay yearning, ancient poetry, fantasy novel tropes, and just vibes... no need to send help, just tell me if I get too cheezy.

And on the twenty-seventh day of the season of rain, the god Om spoke unto the prophet Brutha in the form of a desert kite.  
‘'In the spring when the rivers run their banks and flood the fields I will carry you to safety. When the waters recede we will pick through what is left and plant our kisses in the earth. When our kisses grow to love, forever blooming, I pray to harvest what benefits the living may receive from each other by loving what is cultivated. My love for you grows back like a wild weed and cannot be truly purged. The earth itself may tear us asunder but like the desert flowers I will return again and again for you.’'  
“That’s lovely.” The prophet Brutha mumbled from his pillow. “Who’s it from?”  
“An old poet Malka daughter of Moshe,” the god sighed “she was certainly popular a few hundred years ago, but I’m beginning to think that most of her work is lost to time.” He shifted his talons along the damp clay of the window sill. Outside the rain fell into the darkness, only perceptible by sound.  
“That’s quite sad, it was a lovely poem.” The prophet turned his head towards the window before he continued. “It’s been a while since you’ve visited me.”  
“Well, I’ve been busy with many important god things you know! I can’t always be hanging about with mortals and such.”  
“I know that,” yawned Brutha “I’m surprised you make time for me at all. There must be loads of important things.” On another person, they might have meant it sarcastically, but Brutha never said anything he didn’t truly mean.  
“Do you want to come in?” The human murmured. “I’ve got a couple hours before I have to get up, we can just lay here.”  
Om changed his form into a desert cat and jumped onto the bed. Before he could curl up on the blankets, Brutha pulled him under in a way very unbecoming of a god.  
“Fluffy.” He murmured as he snuggled up to his god under the covers. “I like desert cats.”  
“Don’t we all?” Muttered Om, trying not to let his blushing show. “Despite their negative effects on bird and small mammal populations.”  
He only got a hum as a response.  
The rain outside grew stronger and louder. Om knew that Brutha liked when it rained, but he couldn’t stand it. He used to like it, but now that he spent so much time in the mortal world he didn’t want it to rain. When it rained Brutha spent all his time indoors working on transcribing and it was boring. Sunny days meant walks in the garden and walks around the city, and sitting in the sun and gardening. Not that Om ever did much of the gardening, he preferred to sit and watch. Brutha would take off his shirt in the noonday sun and his dark skin would shine with sweat and-  
“You’re hard to cuddle with as a cat.” the prophet whispered.  
It took a surprising amount of his power not to startle. Brutha was best for cuddling. As their time in the desert became a distant memory, he regained some of the soft folds of fat he’d had before. His best cuddling skills wear definitely that he wasn’t prone to tossing and turning often, and didn’t mind being the little spoon. Being the little spoon is all well and good for a human, but would be simply ridiculous for a god, no matter how often Om might have thought about it.  
“Would you please turn into a human shape again?” Brutha mumbled. He didn’t have to be looking at the mortal man to know that he was blushing.  
“But of course.” The god replied, and rolled over to the edge of the bed before he turned.  
Om’s mortal form was a great source of personal pride, not that he’d admit to his vanity. He liked his long legs and broad shoulders and curly hair, most picked up from humans he’d met over the years. The form was a perfect mix of all the ways he liked to look, perfect for commanding respect, seducing people, and doing other things mortals did. Brutha has never outwardly complimented it, but Om has seen him stare out of the corner of his eye, and that was probably the best he’d get.  
Brutha’s calloused hands wrapped around his waist as he tugged him into bed. Half laughing the god fell willingly and smiled as they both got comfortable.  
“Your hair is wet.” The prophet sighed, already half asleep again.  
Om pinched his bedmates nose “so picky! You’ve got a god in your bed you know.”  
“A god with wet hair that’s gonna mess up the pillow.”  
Om grumbled, but instantly dried his hair anyway. As much as he railed against the other man’s complaints, it felt nice to know he wasn’t being lied to. These days, Brutha would never clam up in order to avoid upsetting him.  
“I missed you.” The prophet in question whispered. “People noticed. I had a priestess ask me who I was missing.”  
“What did you tell them?” Om whispered back across the silence.  
“I told her that I was missing someone I love very much and that they were away doing their job.”  
Om startled up, shifting to face Brutha, much to the chagrin of the other “You love me?”  
The prophet blinked up at him with sleepy eyes “of course I do. I’ve loved you for a very long time.”  
Om waited a few seconds before he questioned “You mean love as in devotion, surely?” His hands worried themselves together despite his best godly efforts. How strange it was that he could move mountains and drain seas, but couldn’t stop the movement of his own hands.  
Brutha shifted “If it doesn’t upset you, I’ll tell you.”  
Almost too quickly the god responded, “You could never upset me with your true feelings.” It was false of course, there was most certainly a way or two that the prophet could make his god hurt.  
“I think I’ve come to love you in a way that a man loves his spouse. Surely I’d never break any boundaries you've instated, but I feel as though we’re in a sort of marriage.”  
“Marriage?”  
“Not that we ever married, but I feel married to you. I believe you’ll be the only person I’ll ever truly love.”  
The rain outside was suddenly the loudest in the room, in the darkness it seemed to swallow everything into the awkward silence.  
“Huh, this is a development I did not foresee” Om whispered, still flabbergasted.  
“You don’t usually foresee developments anyways. Unless you’ve become an oracle while you were away.” His eyes were still half-closed and his speech still sleepy. “We’ve had this conversation before. This isn’t the first time I’ve told you I love you.”  
“It isn’t?” Om wracked his brain but couldn’t recall. What use was a godly memory when the turtle had moved for so long.  
“I told you when we were out in the garden the other day, and also that time I was inscribing the epics of the desert and I took that break.”  
“I didn’t think you meant it like that!” Om sputtered “I didn’t think you were telling the truth!”  
Brutha rolled over and gripped the god's hands tight in his own. he gave the smallest and softest kiss to the other being in bed. “I’d never lie to you. I’d never brush off something like that.” His eyes were like the darkest river silt, full of life and the promise of even more to come. Om was stunned that such a poetic thought was his first inclination. Brutha’s eyes were just brown, not any sort of rivery thing.  
he mumbled, half on impulse“Sing to me of the fields of your childhood, and the grass that grows there and flowers that are scattered about. Your eyes are flowers of such a bright and beautiful kind. Tell me of the people who have hurt you so that I might harm them in turn. Oh, you should not be bothered with cruelty of any kind. Whisper to me of how you care for me because it is all I crave. I am blessed to be graced with your love and all that it brings.”  
“Did Malka write that?” Brutha loosened his grip on Om's hands.  
“No,” The god smiled “I did just now."  
They didn’t say any more. Brutha smiled though, a small and metaphorical light in the dark room. Filling up chasms and cracks alike, resplendent like a second sun. The pair snuggled into the thin blankets as the rain poured on outside and the turtle moved on.


End file.
